Striker
by Puttefujs
Summary: Dean is Castiel's mentor, teaching him how to improve his attributes. Amidst the continuous process of training they reflect each other in what ways they can manage. But there's something more, something unexplainable. Castiel weakens every time they share warmth and words, while Dean's eyes glows and a swirled spark lights up his empty eyes in return. Fantasy - Smut.
1. Haze

Fantasy Au. This story is rated **M**ature, if not **E**xplicit for a reason and contains intimate scenes and occasionally violence.

Dean is Castiel's mentor. Dean is twenty-two and Castiel is nineteen.

You will notice that the different races do not have the same qualities as shown in the serie itself.

OCS will occur.

You're currently perceiving from **Castiel's point of view - written in 1rst view.**

**Have some violence, romance, smut, humor and drama intertwined.**

**I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

You're heading towards a little village called De Novo by request.

Something is going to wait for you there – or someone. In any case, Muni was very clear in her words when she sent you the letter. You know it's her who has written it. Her signature has willingly been interpret in the nick of paper, her very own trademark who only she can use.

You look down at the paper nestled in your hand.

''_Thee are to arrive in the outskirts of De Novo the 3rd__of April an early morning. It is requested that you bring weapons and equipment necessary for exorcism and fatal circumstances._

_This quest is ranked B, and is therefore only to be performed and proceeded by assassinates of high experience. Castiel, I go by the belief that you claim the capability of exceeding the expectations aimed at this request of mine. The reward will be most pleasant. Further information will be received in De Novo the moment you arrive. You will know what to do. ''_

_Muni._

It's rare for Muni to contact you, specially by letter – without any hint of further information aimed amidst the request. The last time you saw her was about a month ago in your home village when she passed by, speaking about you being bored and needing something to do. Or having the necessity to be taught how to explore your 'admirable' skills.

''_Do you need a mentor?''_ She asked.

You looked at her quizzically, though awaited for her to draw it back as a reluctant joke. But she didn't draw it back, and instead she regarded you with her caramel eyes in a serious matter, no hint of anything funny looming in the expression her face wore. You didn't know what to say. Seconds later you were interrupted by her message stone quipping with slithering words from some of her colleagues contacting her or offering her a quest. She had to leave shortly after the call, leaving with the words; _''You won't be bored for long.''_

You're not sure what that is supposed to mean.

Honestly, you haven't known what to do lately – and you don't know what you're capable of. To be frank, you don't know anything about yourself – because you're special, they all say – you're unique. No trainer has been able to find out what you're good at, what capabilities you can exercise and perform. You don't know either, but you just proceed anyway, and that has always been the only solution. You're strong, apparently, but you don't know how to get stronger and improve.

* * *

The sun is still high on the sky when you arrive in the village. You're not sure where exactly your quest is to be proceeded – Muni was not very clear in her words anyway, now that you look at the paper for the fifth time this minute. You wriggle your nose, sight sent pacing along the streets ahead of you. The village is not small, but it's not big, either. Lots of people wander around of varied kinds. You excuse yourself when you accidentally bump into a two feet tall Blader, because your attention is lingering to the ongoing things around you. In fact, the village is very lively – and you walk past an impressively crowded market on the way.

You've walked through the village now and reached the end. From there on, there are only trees and a mirthful forest ahead. You're surprised to be encountered by a little house in the outskirts, just where the forest begins to take place. The house is well hidden between trees and bushes, but you manage to outline it anyway. You don't sense anything wrong about this scenario at all – nor the village itself. You internally wonder why Muni has brought you out here anyway.

For a minute or two you just stand there on the little path leading to the front door of the house– which rather looks like a cottage. You don't know what you're waiting for. Muni said that you'd know what to do. What do you do?

Just as you're about to draw up your message stone, the front door of the cottage opens, and a man steps out. He's tall and tanned, and his biceps are prompt and bigger than what yours will ever be. What is the most noticeable though, are his eyes. Two snow white eyes regard their attention to you instantly when he notices you standing a little away, and he perks up like a predator and stand a little taller – or at least he looks bigger now than what he did before. You tense up completely, not really knowing why, and take a step back. His eyes are intimidating, but at the same time very enticing in a way they should _not _be. You also notice how his ears are oddly pointy.

The stranger suddenly breaks into a lopsided smirk – baring a canine fang amidst the process, which really puts you off guard. ''Cas—casiti… Cati… Astiel? Castiel?'' He tries, tilting his head as he continuously regards you with this daring smile of his. ''Your name is Castiel, right?'' He then says, and you're brought out of your haze.

''Who are you?'' You say instead – and now the stranger laughs. ''My name is Dean. Your future mentor,'' he steps ahead, reaching a hand up to greet you properly. You stare at him completely dumbfounded, finding none words to say to that. ''Mentor?'' You repeat. He breaks you off by asking you a question; ''How old are you, Cas? – Is it okay if I call you Cas?''

You don't even get to answer, ''I'll just call you Cas, then. How old are you?''

You have to take a deep breath in order not to do something stupid – or say something stupid. ''Nineteen.''

When you look at him properly and up close, he looks even more unreal and strange, but also very endowed in the absolute right ways, unfortunately. ''Great, then. I'm twenty-two. It's nice to meet you, Cas. Let's have a good time,'' he then says – and judging by his boyish smile, you know he's going to give you hell.

* * *

**Eight months later.**

* * *

''**Where have you been**?'' are the first words to leave Dean's pursed mouth. A dangerous glint is his blank eyes as he closes in on you and stares down at you from here he stands. He scrunches up his nose, and you can remark that he's fighting against every urge to scold your ass back to where you came from right now. You realize you may have had to tell him about where you had to go, and for how long you'd be gone. You told him that you would be going on a mission yourself, but not where to, even though he had, without knowing the location of the quest, told you that you should dress yourself properly. You frown deeply and stare up at him with disbelieving eyes, crossing your arms as you try to fish out a decent explanation. You're still wearing your warm clothes, but you came in completely drenched in rain because you happened to transport yourself a little bit further away from the meeting place than what was necessary… and at that exact moment the weather had chosen to piss down with 120 k/m an hour or more so.

''I was proceeding a quest,'' you answer after a while. Until now only peculiar croaks have been the thing you can contribute with. You uncross your arms and hold them a bit high, palms exposed as you try to convince him that you're doing fine. ''You're **my** responsibility, so _I_ have to make sure that what you're doing isn't completely batshit as it usually is,'' he sneers at you. His eyes soften though, and he sighs in exhaustion and rubs the heel of his palm against his forehead. ''I know that you were doing a quest, but before you leave you're damn right ought to tell me so – and tell me what mission It is,'' he continues, and you're more than likely caught in wonder than being ashamed. You have never seen him like this. This is also the first time he tells you that you're his responsibility, taking into account how he always tells you that you are to take care of yourself – and that your state is your own concern. He bares one of his canine fangs in a lopsided scowl, and now he is the one to cross his arms when he turns his back to you.

You rub two fingers against the bridge of your nose timidly as you take what you deserve. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to disappear in an early morning – specially in a time like this. You unbutton the first little plastic dot on your coat and continue downward, sniffing sadly all the while because you know that you're standing in shit to your throat. You may also have caught a cold during the mission – or perhaps an influenza or something deadly tormenting. Only time will tell, you tell yourself sullenly and hang up your coat on one of the coat hangers. The weather outside is horrendous. You can hear the obvious pitter-patter of raindrops splattering against the window panes and the roof, settling into distant background noise when Dean levels at you again with scrutiny looming in his eyes. ''Who was the giver?'' he asks, and he crosses the room and approaches the fireplace, preparing it in silence. Your answer is awaiting as the only other noise except for the drumming rain is the rustling of when Dean throws blocks of wood into the fireplace. You eye his broad shoulders shortly, and then aim your glance at the plank floor. ''It was Muni,'' you answer.

You're not prepared when he turns around and amends with a soft; ''Sorry.'' He runs a hand through his spiked locks of brown hair and settles down in a chair not far away from the fireplace. You eye him with uncertainty before taking a few steps forward as you undress yourself. You keep your t-shirt and your knee-length shorts on, but they're drenched in sour rain as well as the coat and pants are. You sort out the clothes Muni gave you in front of the fireplace. You may as well use the clothes later on if you are to pay the Katjink village a visit again. Dean hasn't said anything, but you know he's looking at you expectantly. ''Why are you apologizing?'' you ask him, because you find his current demeanour more than peculiar. He sighs audibly. ''I've been training your lazy ass for a lot of time now. It annoys me endlessly that I'm going all hen-mom on you now – of all times… just because you've been gone for more than ten hours,'' he answers honestly, grinning a bit all the while. Continuing, ''you even told me that you had gotten a mission, ya'know. This is stupid.'' You can't help but to smile a bit, a klutz smirk that becomes more of a squeamish tug of the corners of your mouth.

You can barely see Dean from here, considering how he's coated in darkness by the lack of light in the living room. The only glow to light up in the house at the current time is the fireplace and the lamp-hangers settled around the house and put into motion by a light spell. He has chosen not to lighten those close to himself. But Dean slinks in the darkness, as per the usual, and he looks around with a bored glance. You know why he is worried about you, but he never gets affectionate about it. At his rank, it's all about being professional. Muni let herself loose though, which is a change – to say the least. You're a bit mad at yourself, though. Just a few weeks ago, the two of you went out to perform a quest that contained eliminating kuros very close to your home village. Some of them has been mentioned to remain alive, which may result an attack or a murder aimed at yourself if you're not careful. Kuros´ never hesitate to kill and devour if the chance is given. You excuse yourself and visit the bathroom.

* * *

Two different eyes look back at you, one amber and one blue. Blinking, you perceive each and your wiry face with careful analysis. Luminos are usually the only ones with the gift of being handed two different eye colours. If not, there is no explanation as to why a living being would be granted such. You've asked various of people, with fierce enthusiasm fought through thick and dusty books for anything that would explain the odd quirk. Nothing really helps.

A sigh eases its way through your throat as you squint your eyes and wriggle your nose, taking another heavy sniff as you again think you may gain a cold sooner or later. Your sight is sent pacing at the clothes you're wearing. It's cold and wet, even though the weather outside isn't cornering the coldest degree yet – and will not until winter is to arrive. A hollow shudder travels through your body as you subsequently observe the dark marks patched on your skin in the mirror. Your eyes don't look tired though, rather fresh and excited. You don't know what to believe. Hand sent puling up in your shirt, you outline the abs shaped there with your eyes. No matter what you do, they're nothing compared to Dean´s. In honesty, you don't know why you continue to attempt comparing yourself to Dean, because you're not the same and will never be. His skin is darker, his eyes are white as snow with a hint of something knowing and fierce.

Absent-mindedly, you let the tips of your fingers roam along your chest – brushing a perked nipple on the way. You bring another hand up in unison, this one resting just at the root of your abs in a timid caress. Inhale and exhale – brief at first but stretching into something that fills your chest and empties again. You close your eyes, and everything is gone and absent in the background – except your fingers and the blatant image of Dean and his intimidating eyes, his lush lips and his slim waist and broad shoulders.

* * *

As quick it went, as quick you are distracted when a booming knock on the door sounds and the door nearly bursts off its hinges. You suck in a gasp, rolling down the sticky shirt and gather up your concentration before opening the door to find Dean standing there. He has his head tilted, mouth turned into a lopsided smirk. You somehow feel like punching that smug smile of his away, but it has always been a special charm that helplessly draws you closer to him. You feel like you're mad at him for pulling your strings, but you're the one who let him, and you're the one with the most vivid and lewd imagination. You are not one to complain, then.

''What took you so long?'' he asks, and now he's cornering you with _that_ tone and_ those_ lifted and playful eyebrows. He regards you with yet another boyish grin and walks into the living room again, sitting in front of the fireplace on the expensive and woollen carpet you gained by completing an unique quest. The wet winter clothes has been hung up on a rack while you were gone, and you curse inanely when he motions with an inviting hand for you to come closer and take seat. But you do it anyway.

''I was scrutinizing the dark patches I've gotten from the mission,'' you explain him, noticing how his eyes harden a bit at your words. You pick a bit at the edge of your wet t-shirt and roll the fabric between two fingers. The flames in the chimney joyfully dance around one another and casts long rays of orange glows in the room, framing Dean's strong jaw definitely and the perk of his nose. The only glow in the room you leave your attention at is the ones in his affirming orbs. He avoids questioning the brought subject, and instead turns his head to the fire licking up the wood blocks. It's still cold wearing the wet clothes, so you pull your shirt off and unbutton your shorts. Dean doesn't say anything about your doings, but continues to stare off and into the flames. His behaviour is unusual, but you yourself feel so out of place and daring at the moment. You raise yourself and undress yourself completely, except for the underwear you're wearing. It's also wet, but you refrain from taking that off.

When you sit down again, you notice how he's eyeing you out of the corners of his eyes – like a predator targeting its prey. You're not sure what to expect, and you're more than surprised when his breath simmers just along the nape of your neck seconds later. He's moved close to you, but you don't stop him when he runs the flat of his hand along your arm, down your hips and caress your inner thigh softly. It's feels like the atmosphere suddenly changed, the air growing more snug as the crackling of the fire is replaced by the ferocious beating of your temples and blood rushing from your heart. A warm feeling blossoms in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like your vital regions are pooling in heat. It's something you've never experienced before – something you've never gotten close to just with the vivid imagination of yours. You don't mind it, but it feels like you're dreaming or are in a mesmerizing haze.

He's your friend, your mentor and a companion who has meant and means a lot to you. But he's also something else, and he's always been the face you've seen panting in satisfaction in your less puerile dreams. You tug yourself closer to him – and now you're sitting between his spread legs as he sways his arms around you and press you closer to himself. His clothed chest feels warm and dry against your back, and you attempt to lean closer despite already being nestled in his embrace. He's still wearing his black t-shirt, unbuttoned plaid shirt, black sneakers and his knee-length denim shorts, and you feel naked compared to him. You don't get time to aim at that complication though, because your breath is sucked out of you the moment his fingers ever so lightly travels up and down your stomach. You flex your muscles due anticipation, and you watch how he runs a thumb along the bridge between the outline of your abs.

A strange shiver travels down your spine, and you automatically lift yourself a bit from your seat, bucking a bit in your back as you can feel the fine hair on your arms stand. ''You okay?'' He whispers into your ear, suddenly just there – and the warmth in his voice is enticing but dangerous to you. He presses a gentle kiss to the skin just underneath your ear, hovering there for a while until moving on as he scatters aunty kisses.

You're not sure what's going on, but it feels like your head is spinning and your lips part as if to ask for more of that heated feeling. But you don't say anything, and instead an unexpected soft whimper leaves your thin lips, and Dean complies with another hand sent straddling your right hip now. He lingers there, until moving on and repeating earlier motion – touching your inner thigh with such gentleness that you can barely feel it. You suddenly feel inexperienced and out of place when you bend a bit in your knees curtly and your toes curls automatically. ''I'm…,'' you never really manage to finish your sentence, because when he brushes a thumb against the fabric of your boxers, the air in your lungs promptly leaves. Closing your eyes, you crane your neck to the side – baring your throat and neck to him in a willing gesture.

He acts upon the gesture, diving down to press his mouth to the juncture of your neck once more, this time parting his lips though. He suck there, and it gives a whirling feeling in the core of your stomach – you have to bring your hand to your stomach, just to check that there isn't a black hole from the peculiar feeling. But you don't have time to regard that, because he rubs the heel of his palm against your covered erection just as you're inattentive. ''_Dean_,'' you whisper helplessly, eyes closed as you fidget in his embrace. It's too much, and he has not even pulled down your pants yet. He stops.

You crack one eye open and crane a bit to the side to look at him sideways, only to find him staring at you with a mesmerized look in his daunting eyes. The next words makes your ears prickle in embarrassment, Dean smirking almost quizzically as he asks you; ''Have you even masturbated before?'' You look back at him in astonishment. ''I…,'' you're not sure what to say. Will he dislike you if you say that you haven't? You once heard him say that he prefers women with experience. You're not experienced – and you're definitely not a member of the female gender. You feel confused.

''I have,'' you assure him – but the words leave your mouth in a less firm way compared to how you want it to sound like. He grins. ''Show me,'' he says in return, cocking a brow. ''Put on a show,'' he murmurs in your ear when he presses close to you again – with his deep voice and his filthy words. You panic. ''Now?'' You whisper, and you look down yourself and at the disturbance tenting your boxers. It's already embarrassing as it is. ''Mm-mmh'' he foxily grins – now resting his cheek against yours. You can feel his look going the same place as where your hands are turning to be. ''I don't,'' you're quick to say. ''You don't?''

''I haven't masturbated before,'' you yelp – already admitting defeat. You're too nervous, back now rigid against his relaxed composure. His chest vibrates when he exhales a husky chuckle, far more entertained than what you believes is fair. ''Relax.''

Now he snakes his arms around your waist again, straddling the both of your inner thighs with his copious hands, letting them rest there. He nuzzles his nose against the back of your head and your onyx hair, breathing in your scent. ''I'll guide you.''

Suddenly, you feel a little bit more relaxed. What really sets you afire, though, is when he huddles a _little_ closer than before – not with his torso, but with his pelvis, and you feel _something_ against your bared back, the denim fabric and a cold zipper of his shorts scraping there – and a very remarkable bulge. Your head starts spinning, and you're not sure if you can see straight anymore – breath turning into heaps of air quickly inhaled and exhaled. He's straining – down there – and you're not sure about what you shall do about it. Does he want to be satisfied? Shall you turn around and touch him instead, or?

''Concentrate,'' he murmurs, bringing you back to what earlier was the main subject. He takes one of your hands in his – and you immediately regard the warmth of his big hand rather than anything else – until he places it just at the edge of your boxers. ''Pull it down.'' You do as he says, his hand following suit, though not controlling you, but there as a present appendage to guide you. ''Touch.''

You touch yourself.

It's not unpleasant – far from. It's different than anything else, and different from imagining the pleasure. Your breath quickens, if even possible, and you can feel flusterment burn along your cheeks and even your neck a tad. Momentarily, you forget Dean's presence – eyes fixated at your hand as you close your fingers around your erection, until the words ''Does it feel good?'' sounds next to you. ''G-_good_,'' you say, words thick in your mouth. You've been sitting still for now – right until you can feel his hand grasp yours lightly, tugging it forwards and pressing a bit. _Move._

And it's good – specially when you press a little harder at some parts, and let loose at others. The uneasiness is replaced by curiosity, because this actually feels good – better than what you have ever imagined. You get a little more concentrated, and now your mouth is agabe, noises spilling from your mouth without your mind following suit. The tingling feeling in your stomach grows stronger and more unbearable. You need release, even though you're not sure what it really contains – but you need it now, you need it **right now**. Your fingers move faster, stroking yourself in amore haphazard speed now – eyes closing again as you throw your head a tad back and rest it against Dean's shoulder. Dean isn't even doing anything right now, having removed his hand, instead resting it just above your motioning hand, caressing your stomach softly. You don't even know when your other hand joined in, stroking yourself in now less structured strokes, needing relief.

You only open your eyes again when you can feel something assemble in the corner of your eyes – your sight turning blurry for each second that passes by. ''Dean, Dean, De-ahn,'' you ramble repeatedly – the pleasure nearly hurts – _you want relief_. You beg for him to do something, but you don't know what. You don't know what you're begging for, but you do it anyway – voice searching something, searching _**Dean**_. You dig your toes into the woollen carpet and press yourself against him, turning your head to press your lips to his throat, feeling how his Adam apple takes a turn up and down as he swallows thickly. ''Please,'' your voice croaks halfway, one of your hands loosing their grip on your member as it flails to find one of Dean's hands - his other hand resting next to his hip. You guide it to your member, wanting for him to do something. ''Do someth- do sh-'' you try to say, but you really can't – your breath is out of control.

He does _something_.

His presence is suddenly just there, returning to grasp your full attention when his warm hand pushes yours away gently, taking over in your stead. He thumbs the slit of the head – sending you releasing a soft whimper reminding of a yelp, goose bumps appearing all over your skin as he does a lot of things with his skilled hand that you can't do with your own. The straining feeling in your stomach grows snugger – if not more unbearable. ''Please, please, please,'' you now ramble, ''something- some-'' you cry, and now tears are rolling down your cheeks when this blossoming feeling suddenly appears – starting from your scalp to your toes. But just as you're about to cry out in pleasure from a wave of delight, his hand stops moving – it returns to the base of your erection and he clamps his thumb and forefinger together, preventing you from gaining your release. ''Wh-'' you start – you feel like you can't breathe.

''Dean,'' you sniff, and you can't see straight anymore, wetness blocking your view as the tears keep coming. ''Wh-'' it's almost as if you're incapable of speaking. Your hands are flailing uncontrollably, hands smoothing along his strong arm as you keep releasing peculiar, complaining noises. ''Wh-'' you continue, and you crane yourself and look sideways at him again, blinking the rest of your tears away hectically.

He chuckles, a blatant smirk appearing on his lips. ''Cas,'' he hushed says – and your eyes widens in bewilderment by how dark his voice his, how predatory his glazed eyes are – you feel like you're being devoured alive. He almost topples you to the side when he presses his lips against yours forcefully. It hurts a bit from this position, but you don't notice that, because now his tongue is straddling the back of your teeth, and he captures you completely. He bites your lower lip and you croak helplessly – it's all warm and wet. You only get a moment to regain your breath before he's on you again, now his hand starts moving again all the while, stroking you in a stable pace. It feels too mesmerizing, and even though his mouth is on yours, you keep moaning his name between the pauses of the kisses – begging for something, for more.

But then it's there again - the strange and alluring feeling, the feeling you've been searching for. It boils inside of you, and it's so unlike the energy and power you release during combat, this one is suffocating and catches you while you're feeling alive and at the same time fatigued. You're caught off guard and moaning when Dean stops kissing you because you're not responding anymore, and he presses his forehead to yours. You reach climax, and it reaches you like rapid fire, you tense up in your body all over – back rigid and hands clawing Dean's wrist and arm between your legs, which now slows down its pace.

Your sight turns darker – you shut out the noise of the rain drumming on the roof and the crackling of the fire in the fireplace. Your limbs fall still and loose.

''Cas?'' You hear him say.

''M-mmmh?''

His forehead is still pressed against yours – you look up at him. For a moment, you swear you see something light up in his white eyes – a spark between a mix of blue and amber.

His mouth is moving.

You don't hear what he's saying.

The only thing you can hear is your own breathing.

Your eyes fall shut.

You fall asleep in his embrace.

* * *

Castiel is an **Angel.**

**Job: Striker. Energy and lightning-user. Knuckles. Origin unknown.**

Dean is a** human.**

**Job: mix between a Corsair with Buccaneer tendencies - curving bullets, though capable of exercising combat looking like the fighting-style Castiel uses. Revolver and also a brief knuckle user. Pirate.**

Picking your interest? Let me know.

Kindly leave a review, darling.

Have a nice day.


	2. Heat

Warning: Sexual content.

Enjoy.

* * *

When you wake up, you're nestled underneath the blankets in your very own bed. Your head feels dizzy, so you're careful and slow when you prop yourself up on your elbows. You take a languid glance in your elegant room – none redundant items left in sight. You swing one leg over the edge of the bed and attempt to make a go. But your head throbs, something indulging simmering underneath your scalp persistently. You hold a hand to your forehead, only to realize that sweat is beaded there, but it's not warm. You can't be feverish then, you assume.

As you reach the capability to stand up, you also happen to make the realization that you're not even wearing any clothes at all. You can't describe this feeling – a pang of embarrassment and happiness intertwined – prickling your cheeks timidly. It surges in your chest, and a smile carries the lead upon your lips. Just as you're about to leave the room after having put on some boxers, something catches your attention at the corner of your eye. You look at your nightstand in perplexity. A plate with some fresh baked bread and a glass of milk is standing there – steam still omitting from the baked good. Did Dean do this? You wonder, but you're more than flattered and humble than anything else. You sit on the bed again, digging your heels into the plush of the mattress in order to sit with your back against the wall. Then, in silence, you eat the breakfast Dean must have prepared for you.

Finished with eating, you take the plate and the glass in your hands and make your way to the open kitchen intertwined with the living room. It's light but empty for people, the only noise filling the room being the pitter-patter of your naked feet against the wooden planks. You almost drop the items in your hands when you realize that you're not the only one in here, abruptly distracted when you hear a gnashing sound. Turning around, Dean is standing a little further away, grinding beans into a bowl of stone. He's wearing his usual attire today, yet another unbuttoned plaid shirt with a black t-shirt underneath, denim pants and robust boots. ''Careful there,'' he says – knowing your entrance without you having noticed. He looks concentrated as he pours another ingredient into the little bowl, continuously stirring the content with a stern look on his face.

It's not like there's anything unusual about this, but yet – at the same time, the atmosphere is different. You blink your eyes in bewilderment, until he snaps you out of your phasing when he looks directly into your eyes. Those white irises, contenting ferocity – never failing to mesmerize you, even for a second. ''You okay?'' He then asks, and he stops grinding the mixture and bestows you a questioning glare instead. You perk up in surprise and look around yourself hastily, placing the glass and plate on a kitchen counter. ''Y-yes – I'm fine,'' you quip, averting eye contact. When he doesn't say anything, you contribute with a; ''Thank you'', you look over your shoulder to find him once more quizzically looking at you. ''- For the breakfast, I –m-mean,'' you're quick to amend.

''Um, oh- that. You're welcome.''

In the next following minutes, the air is filled by utter silence, except for the gnashing of Dean grinding mixture – and the splatter of when you head outside and fill a bucket with water from the faucet, returning to wash the plate and the glass plus some other plates form earlier days. You eye your hands rubbing one of the plates with a sponge, stilling into a mindless trance. You hear something dull, but refrain from regarding it. ''S… c…Cas…Cas, Castiel?'' Dean whirs you out of it once more, and when did he get this close?

He's a little behind you, hovering there. You're almost tempted to lean back and feel the warmth of his broad chest – let him embrace you anew, but you're not moving – and either Is Dean. ''Sorry – I was thinking,'' you murmur in response, and you lean forward instead to grab a dishcloth beside the bucket. You can feel Dean's eyes on you all the while. At the corner of your eye, you notice one of his hands darting a little out – as if to reach for your hip. But he doesn't do anything, and he withdraws it again reluctantly. Without any words, he walks away and disappears into his own room. You didn't even get to hear what he had to say.

Subsequently, you take a quick shower outside by the faucet, face turning upwards as you absorb and delightfully enjoy the rich rays of sunshine dawning upon you. You've had your eyes closed for a while now, until the light source is blocked from your view and a shadow hovers above you. ''Cas,'' you hear Dean's deep voice levelling you. You crack your eyes open and shut the faucet, looking up at Dean, who seems to be put a little off guard. You're feeling more than humble, closing your legs where you sit in timidity – close to be covering your chest with your hands as well. He tilts his head and squats down so that he's on eye level with you, but his eyes are roaming along your form, which you, honestly, don't dislike at all. But you're shy, so you act as if you haven't noticed. ''I'm going on a mission,'' he says, this time looking directly into your eyes. ''I'll be back in the evening if I'm lucky.''

''Good luck, Dean.''

''Thanks,'' he gruffly answers, his smile lopsided. Now you're the one who's caught off guard.

''Where are you going?''

''Mikanno.''

''Muni..?''

''Yeah. She told me about your mission this morning, and has asked for me to do the second part. You need to rest a bit, she said.''

You nod at his response, all the while feeling grateful for Muni's care. ''Don't do anything reckless while I'm gone, 'kay?'' He then says, and he ruffles your wet hair between his fingers and raises himself. When he's gone and out of view, you realize how heated your skin is feeling – and not from the sunlight. Though, if you stay out here you'll get cold sooner or later. It's already gradually freezing, though hopefully it'll get warmer later on as the sun will arise more and stand high on the cloud blotched sky – this October day. You grab a towel and dry yourself, thinking about what you'll entertain yourself with for today – now what you're out of question regarding quests and missions to attend.

* * *

After dressing yourself, you decide to grant the village a visit. De Novo is only a half kilometre apart from where you and Dean live, since you live in the outskirts and the shadow of the little village. Despite the size, the village is as lively as ever – mostly the market where hundreds of people arrives to buy or sell. There is also a market that is intertwined with every village in the countries close, even those oversea – a portal entrance amidst the market area of the place. You walk past it, observing how people either alone or hand in hand step inside the swirling blue entrance – and those coming out of it with items in their hands or inventories. You walk down the street and encounter your favourite place instead though, bestowing the huge and enticing sign saying; ''Books & more'' in cursive letters.

The place is dusty and lonesome, beside the owner of the shop sitting behind a counter, sipping a cup of coffee whilst levelling his attention wholeheartedly at the tremendous book in front of him. You blink your eyes and fondly perceive the varied set of shelves ahead – which appears more likely as a dark labyrinth due the lack of light in the hall. ''Hello,'' you say. George, his name is, gets his weekly heart attack from whenever you deem to pay a visit. Before he can properly answer, he coughs violently and accidentally spits some of his coffee out on the pages of the book he's reading, wheezing a; ''got it in the wrong pipe.'' You take your time to let him finish spluttering, reaching your hand forward and over the counter to grant him a handshake. When he's done, he merrily shakes your hand and wriggle on his nose, smiling kindly, but looking a little red in his face from the straining. ''Castiel, it is good to see you,'' he says with his raspy, kind voice. You smile in return and apologize for the shock. He all but worries, shaking his head with a laugh – ''no, no, no – don't worry about an old man like me, Castiel.'' ''I have reached the age where it does not matter if you catch me on guard, I will probably get something stuck in my throat anyway from chock,'' he continues.

* * *

After the greeting, you take a stroll in the familiar library. You remember every section – you've been here lots of times, and this is usually the place you visit if you feel like you're out of things to do. As you're walking and observing, something unusual takes your interest. A section. But – not a section you've seen before. You take a step back between the tall shelves, counting every shelve standing in the line in front of you. Two new shelves has been added, shaping a little alley-looking spot. By the end of it, there is a window – lazy rays of sunshine shines through the panes, lighting up the dust particles floating in the air. You take a step forward, and then another one. It feels like you've stepped into another dimension, somehow. The books here are much thicker and looks shabby, and when you take one down, it literally crumbles in your grasp, the leather pad thins into more than two pieces – pages of the book falling apart and scattering on the ground. You can't do anything but to glare in surprise, subsequently casting hectic looks around you to see if anyone is here to witness it. Just as you're about to call out for George, he appears at the end of the two shelves – but his look is distant. ''George – I apologize sincerely, but-'' he doesn't hear you. You don't get to end your sentence before he carries on and walks ahead with books in his arm, sorting them out on other shelves. ''George!'' You try again. Now he looks towards your direction, but he doesn't see you. He sniffs and turns around, humming a silent melody to himself.

You look down at the book in your hand – or, to be more frank, the little piece of forlorn leather. The rest of the book is laying on the ground, a mess between leather scraps and pages. You squat down and begin to gather the pages, wondering about the occurrence before. You happen to eye the shelf in front of you, just where the rays of sunshine end their journey. You notice an unique book. The side of a remarkable book is covered in an emerald binding and golden linings – it almost looks like the book is glowing from afar. You put aside the pages and reach for the inquiring book instead, this time hesitant and very careful as you turn it around and look at the front. Your eyes widen as you perceive the letters there, and the beautiful patterns of gold carved in the leather. It's stunning – and in a very good quality, surprisingly. '_'De Novo_,'' you whisper – like the name of the village.

You open the book and look at the first page. The book altogether doesn't have any named author, apparently – and it starts out briskly.

''_Is there anyone out there cornering my guarded words? _

_Dear whomever choses to regard my words with desired attention,_

_I do not know why I am here. I have the assumption that I do not belong here, although mother dear tells me every night that we have found the right place to grant our living. Father inquires the same. Today was when I officially became a member of the Trainees. In order to become a member of the force, it is a necessity for me to prove my worth when the right time will arrive. I do not think it is a complication so far. I see the pride in my father's eyes and the wonder in my brother's. My mother looks at me the same as she always does, with her fond eyes. I hope that we will not have to transfer clan once more._

_But it still does not feel right. Nobody sees me. They see the person I acquire to be when coated in the looks of hundreds of eyes. When I stand with the bow held close to my chin, an arrow tight in my grip. When I feel alive, and I become the predator that no one can counter. When they cannot see the fright of rejection in my eyes, the fright of being seen through. They think I am a predator. Sometimes I feel like I am one, too. A predator.'''_

The scrawny handwriting silences you alone. It's not decidedly scrawny, but there's something boyish about it – and at the same time it's eloquent. The content, though, is something else. But you don't get to regard that rightfully, because your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets when you eye the date mark at the right corner of the page. Second of January – though in an ancient time. But the book is in perfect shape, robust and apparent in your hands. You have to treasure this book, you have decided. You remark how heavy it is when you raise yourself, a soft 'oompfh' released from your lips as you drag it up and press it to your chest.

* * *

''Castiel, there you are!'' George pointedly states, scratching the back of his head in confusion. ''I tought you had left without saying goodbye,'' he now adjusts his glasses and looks up at you. The moment you stepped out from between the two shelves, it felt like the scenario changed – or the atmosphere, to say the least. George had been standing with his back turned to you, calling your name. When you caught his attention, he nearly flew two meters into the air in surprise. ''I am sorry, I was exploring one of the new sections you have gotten,'' you amend softly. He looks at you in confusion. ''New section? I have none of that, son.'' You tilt your head in bewilderment, ''It is right he-''

The section is gone when you turn around. Where a window should be, there is none. The shelves have changed. The regular amount of shelves are there instead. You're not sure what to say when you turn around completely, staring wide-eyed at the scene in front of you. ''It… I just hid behind some of the shelves,'' you say instead – fortunately not thrown off the beat. George takes it as good humour, but his smile disappears when he eyes the book you have nestled in your embrace. ''That is one fine book, Castiel,'' he says as he takes a step closer. He adjusts his glasses snugly and leans forward to grant the front page an analysing glance. ''Where did you find it?''

''I found it in section Q,'' you answer – perhaps a little bit too quickly. But George doesn't do anything but to smile, clapping your shoulder in a friendly manner. ''Good luck with it, then,'' he says and continues to sort some of the books on the shelves. You eye him shortly before making your leave, waving to him as you walk out with the book under your left arm.

* * *

When you get home, you decide to make dinner instead. In fact, you've spent the most of the day in the library, whereas you subsequently took a stroll in the market and spoke with a few commoners. You hid the book in your inventory all the while, and now it appears in your embrace by request. You hide it underneath your pillow in your bed, although it doesn't cover it very well.

You're in the middle of chopping carrots when the front door is barged open, and one furious Dean Winchester steps in. He's holding his message stone up close to his ear, talking rapidly to the listener, scowling all the while. He doesn't look at you when he plops down in a chair at the dinner table, whipping his feet onto the surface of the table – eyes agitated and mouth thinned into a scowl. You don't correct him or tell him to quieten down, and instead you carry on making the food.

He's still talking. The food is almost done, and he's been talking for about a half hour, but his eyebrows are still drawn down in an annoyed expression, and his voice keeps changing from being loud and booming to jittery but quiet. Now that he's not looking at you, you can't help but to spare a few glances upon him. Even when he's mad, he's dangerously attractive, and you can't stop yourself from _wanting_. Your hunger has grown stronger and stronger – even if you haven't been noticing it. From every touch, every look he grants you, your skin tingles. You feel the hunger inside your stomach, and how unsatisfied you are – and the only one who can satisfy you is _Dean._

Dean raises himself, snarl evident on his lips as he turns his back to you, hand on his hip as the other one is still holding the message stone tightly. He moves a little around in the room – to the kitchen counter where you're standing, quickly giving you an apologizing smile, and then to the fireplace. At last he comes back to you, this time standing behind you as you prepare the last things. His voice isn't as furious as before, but his voice is still draped with a venomous pang in the undertone. You tense up when you can feel his hand on your hip, caressing there shyly, if not a bit hesitantly. It's not much, but enough for you to nearly cut your fingers with the thoroughly harmless fruit knife. Now he rolls the fabric of your shirt between his fingers, and he moves them underneath the edge and brushes your hipbone softly.

You feel the hunger tear you up from inside.

You lay down the fruit knife and turn around, facing two now confused snowy eyes. He did not expect your reaction, let alone the way you look at him now. You know that he can see it – observe how your pupils are blown and expanded, covering the most of your different coloured irises. You lean in close to him, as if to inhale his being – the aura surrounding him. You bring a hand up to his chin – from there on guiding it up to his cheek and down again in a soft gesture. You have to stand on your toes to kiss his jawline slowly, but securely, continuing until reaching his left ear, the one that isn't occupied by his message stone. You can hear his voice tremble – just a bit when you close in and press a gentle kiss to his cheekbone, and then the skin underneath his pointy ear. ''Can I touch you?'' You whisper hesitantly, and now you can feel him tense up. You're about to withdraw yourself, but then he catches your arm with his free hand, giving you a reassuring grasp. You look into his eyes, and he nods. There's something peculiar about his eyes, but you can't put a finger on it.

Nervous and a bit trembling, your hands continues their travel downward until encountering his stomach – and you wrap your arms around him very gently in a genuine hug. You hide your face in the crook of his collarbone, inhaling the musk there. Dean is occupied at the moment, and he continues to speak with his gruff voice into the message stone. You can't hear it if he's pleased with your doings, but his body reacts instead, and the way he looks at you is still glazed with something lustful and _hungering_. You press yourself a littler bit more close, and – as daring as you are, you press the tip of your tongue to the skin between his collarbone, a soft swipe, and then you take the skin there between your teeth and bite _very_ hesitantly. His answer is a hand sent straddling your back, coursing down to get a grasp of your buttock – which makes you fluster evidently, a content sigh seeping through your gritted teeth. You withdraw yourself the slightest, only to perk up and grant him a tiny kiss on his lush lips. You can see that he's barely holding back from kissing you again, canine fangs bared in a distracted scowl since he is to continue having a conversation with the receiver.

Now you press your lips to his throat, staying there for a second before marking his Adams apple, once more sticking your tongue out as you swipe it there – encouragement making you bolder and more blatant. You continue like that for a few couple of minutes, pressing loving kisses along the juncture of his throat, then his collarbone again. It feels like you can't stop, like you have to show him that you're his – and that you're affectionate towards him.

You're not sure where it comes from – the whimper that wells up your throat, because you want _more_, and now you want to see _him _being the one moaning, heated or flustered. You remember yesterday – how his erection had been pressed against your back, straining. You want to satisfy him.

''_Dean….,'' _you whisper when you look into his eyes again. Your hands grasps his plaid shirt longingly, pulling him towards yourself. He nearly trips when he complies, stepping closer to you haphazardly. Your action made him dense for a second, distracted as he has forgotten what he had to tell the receiver. But then he remembers again, and he goes on like nothing happened. It is a change, and you love to see the mesmerized look he gives off.

You recall the night before and how he had touched you, and how you had touched yourself. Dean nearly jumps a feet into the air when you guide one of your hands down to his crotch, repeating what you've learnt, rubbing the heel of your palm against the bulge already showing there. His hand now grasps your elbow again, but he doesn't stop your doings – and instead he encourages you. He presses a quick kiss to your forehead, and is then to talk into the message stone again.

To be frank, you're not sure what you're doing at all – but you do what your mind is telling you. Or what your instincts are. As you bend in your knees and sink to the ground, a rush of nostalgia empowers you. Suddenly, it feels like you know what you're doing, and that you've done this before. But you haven't, so you really don't. But you're not the only one who is surprised, and you look up to find Dean staring down at you with wide eyes. You don't get time to question any of it, though, because now your hands are snaking up his legs and to his hips, picking lightly at the edge of his denim jeans. You lean forward and tentatively mouths the outline of his erection through the jeans, listening to how his voice falters shortly – but remarkably.

You fidget with his belt – it takes a while. Being horny and very hungering doesn't dull your nervousness, and now your hands are trembling. The lock of the belt is tricky to you, your hands can't stand still. A surge of embarrassment wavers throughout your body, reaching your nerves feverishly- perhaps this wasn't a good idea, Dean prefers experienced women after all, doesn't he? Maybe-

''Cas,'' Dean says – and even though he's still in a conversation, he says; ''It's okay. Go slow.'' But he has to amend his words to the message stone, making up a quick excuse for the sudden change. You feel a pleasant feeling of comfort when he reaches a hand down to your face, brushing his thumb against your cheek, your lips – and then travelling it to the back of your head as he kneads your onyx locks.

This time, it's not complicated to undo his belt. You pull the end and it slides off easily, granting you further allowance. You unbutton his jeans and move them down slowly, eyeing what is to come next – which is his underwear. His boxers are of dark grey material, and where his straining erection ends, the fabric is a little darker due pre-cum having made it wet. Perplexed and as if in trance, you trace a finger along the length of his erection curving to the side, not allowed passage upwards by the tight elastic band holding the boxers together.

Dean's breathing turns heavier now, and his answers become more distant. He captives a tightly held breath when you once more outline the shape of his erection, this time through thinner material. You replace your finger and trace the tip of your tongue instead then, gradually exploring. Your hands are on each side of his hips – your lifeline from completely losing it as you grasp them tighter and move a little closer. The tension itself gets you hot and bothered, and you moan in bare excitement.

Dean is quiet now – listening to the receiver, or at least trying to. You curl your fingers underneath the edge of the elastic band of his boxers, slowly pulling them down. You lick your chapped lips absently, focusing on the things in front of you. You've only pulled his pants and boxers a bit down, enough to reveal his erection and a bit of his thighs. Dean is still quiet, but you can feel his glare on you – looming and cornering.

He doesn't get to do or say anything before your hand is on him, gripping the base of his length. He fidgets a bit, and you can hear him swallow thickly. His length is thicker than yours, and it's different from holding your own erection. You press a bit and experimentally run your palm and fingers against the length, repeating the motions Dean performed on you. Though, as you're doing so, you notice how you gradually move closer and closer, face close to the tip of his erection now. Pre-cum is gathered at the slit, and you smear it onto your thumb, subsequently lapping it off your digit. Salty. Your eyes briefly flicker up to eye the expression on his face.

There's something lustful glazed upon those vibrant eyes, how he tilts his head and bares a canine fang in a lopsided and reassuring, yet still dangerous grin. Like a _predator._

You feel humble, but loving – and at the same time like Dean is under your skin. It thrills you, a shiver running down your spine as you release a soft moan.

Now he opens his mouth and speaks. You open your mouth and move forward, daringly sticking your tongue out.

Something enticing blossoms in your stomach – like before. But this is different, though just as straining and challenging, yet in another way. The feeling of pleasing someone – the way Dean furrows his brows a bit, how he grinds his teeth – those small things you wouldn't usually notice, the signs giving away lust. He instantly stops speaking when you swipe your tongue along the head, Dean now sounding breathless amidst everything. You can feel his hand on the back of your head, gently ruffling through your hair there – now turning into a little tighter, surprised grasping.

You're not sure if what you're doing is right, but you close your eyes anyway and just sense, probing your tongue along the foreskin and then underneath it, listening to whatever makes Dean's breath quicken or stop for a bit. The throbbing returns, though – the only thing you can hear now is Dean's voice and his in- an exhaling, and the throbbing of your temples from your blood heatedly flowing throughout your veins. You try something more, you open your mouth wide and try to take his erection in bit by bit as you're still pumping him. You can feel the blood pulsate underneath the thin skin, running a finger along an apparent vein.

You've been told about the gagging reflex before – and the system of a human's body. You expect it to come, the grim feeling of when your body tells you to pull back and breathe. It doesn't come, and you continue to slide his member in and through your lips, into the heat – careful not to touch him with the surface of your teeth. The feeling comes again. More, more, _more_. Your tongue slides along and underneath the head of his member, and you don't stop taking him in – only until your nose touches his pubic hair and his erection hits the back of your throat. Dean isn't breathing now, nor a word is leaving his lips. With a bit of complications, you slide a bit back and flicker your eyes upwards to meet his. He looks shocked, and you're not sure why. Have you done something wrong?

''I have to go,'' are the only words Dean says after a while, and he immediately disconnects the message stone and puts in his inventory. His eyes never leaves yours. You pull back completely, wiping a string of drool away with the back of your hand. ''Cas, are you okay?'' He then asks, and he's about to squat down to check up on you, but you push him upwards with your hands on his hips. You're not done.

''I am okay, why w-wouldn't I be?'' You feel your ears prickle – without any consent, because now that Dean regards you with all of his attention, you feel like you're caught in the spotlight. Beside the flusterment, all the want and the urges wells up in you again, and you have to contain yourself from not sinking down on him again. ''Dude, you have no gag reflex?'' Dean nearly moans, and he sounds amazed, if not a bit taken aback. ''I-I don't think so,'' you murmur. Is it really such a bad thing?

He's about to speak again when you chose to silence him instead, closing your eyes as you guide his erection into your mouth again. He stops amidst his words, and now he doesn't even stop himself from moaning, hand returning to ruffle your hair and then gripping. ''Oh fuck,'' Dean whispers, and that's the most amazing thing you've ever heard him say – because of the way his breath sounds wanton, how he sounds phased and as if in a trance. You accidentally scrape a canine teeth against the thin skin, making him hiss in surprise. You quickly apologize, and he nuzzles the back of your ear and says that it's okay, but that you have to remember not to use teeth. You take him in once more – all the way, and his grip on your hair tightens.

''Cas,'' he moans lowly in his throat, all of sudden husky and gruff again. You start sucking lightly, bobbing your head experimentally. This pays you off good as Dean thrusts his pelvis and forces you to swallow him whole anew. He hurriedly apologizes though, and then remembers that you don't have a gag reflex at all, apparently. So you hold him more properly and now bob your head in a faster pace – and Dean has to take a step back, pulling you with him as he leans against one of the cabinets as a support. ''You feel so good,'' he growls, and you keen against his erection, the vibration of your throat sending him thrusting faster, his fingers continuously tangled in your unruly locks.

A bubbling feeling grows snug inside you, and one of your hands automatically slide down to your clothed groin, and you rub it there persistently – moaning around Dean's erection as you continue to take him whole. ''Dean,'' you try to murmur all the while, whimpering as you huddle yourself closer. You somehow manage to hastily unbutton your own pants on the way, immediately shoving your hand down to grab your member as you stroke haphazardly. You feel like you're in a trance, an engulfing heat.

Dean slows his thrusting down though, and you crack one of your eyes open. ''Come here,'' Dean now whispers to you. He opens his eyes too, and they're suddenly soft and genuine. He pushes lightly on your shoulder, hinting for you to pull back. When you do, he squats down in front of you so that you're on eye-level, and now he pushes your hand away too and wraps his hands around your waist, lifting you onto his lap as he sits with his back against the cabinet. You release a surprised gasp when he settles you onto his lap, your legs spread as you sink down on him and he wraps one of his hands around both of your members, pumping in a stable pace. You only manage to look into his eyes briefly before he pulls you into a kiss with his unoccupied hand – but this kiss is different and soft, slow and loving. He doesn't plunge his way into your mouth, but awaits permission as he strokes the tip of his tongue along the crack of your mouth, and you open your mouth with a tender gasp.

But it's not long before your breath turns ragged and uncontrollable, and your vital regions are once more pooling in engulfing heat, a peculiar feeling tingling your skin all over. And it feels even more real and satisfying – because Dean is here with you, feeling the same things as you're feeling – it's mutual. Subconsciously, you thrust your hips a bit, wanting for him to touch you more. And he obliges, he guides the other hand down your hipbone and to your buttocks instead, kneading the flesh there. You arch in your back in his touch, using your hands as leverage. ''Dean, Dean, Dean-'' You ramble all over again, and you're so close. You share the same air, though your moans are the ones filling the room diligently, besides the slick sounds of how he runs his hand along your erections. You sound so wanton now, whimpering loudly as you keen a; ''Dean- I-, I- '' and he knows what you mean. You expect for him to delay your release again, but he doesn't, and you hide your face in the juncture of his throat as you climax, muffling the noises spilling from your lips. It's sweaty and warm there, and you lean into the touch.

You can feel Dean tense up as he releases a strained noise, followed by a mention of your name as he comes, nose buried in your hair as he breathes out heavily. You sit like that for a minute or two, and as you draw yourself a little back to look at Dean, the exhaustion tears in your limbs persistently. You're not sure if you're supposed to feel this drained after ejaculation, but you can barely keep your eyes open. ''Was…, Was it okay?'' you ask him. He leans his head against the cabinet and levels his eyes at you. For a moment, you feel stunned. You remember it. How something between amber and blue sparked in his eyes yesterday. It's there again, but now you see a resemblance. Something green and life-affirming. But then it's gone again when Dean says; ''Amazing.''

You give him a tired grin and grants him a kiss.

From there on, everything is black and dull, and you fall asleep in his embrace.

* * *

Kindly leave a review, dear.

Have a nice day / evening.


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